


Target Alpha

by Attasee



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Major Character Injury, POV Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 08:33:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4256559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Attasee/pseuds/Attasee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has binoculars, an injury, a stop watch, sunburn, a group of cyclists and the Mediterranean Sea to contend with. </p><p>And oh yeah a runner to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Target Alpha

**Author's Note:**

> So this is set in a land far far away from Beacon Hills, in fact all the action happens on a balcony. I wanted it to be a little Jimmy Stewart in the film Rear Window but with more groin thrusting, grumpiness and less Princess of Monaco.
> 
> Thank you to K for the quick read through. 
> 
> Any mistakes are my own and that includes the little bit of Spanish. Also in it Stiles has a injury, and there is a brief description of the cause of it. It's not too graphic but worth mentioning.

Stiles grips the outside edge of the cool white stone balcony wall pulling his body closer so he can see over the edge.  Leaning forward,  he adjusts the position of the borrowed ‘top of the range’  binoculars so they don’t fall off and straightens a neatly folder map of the coastline that sits perched to his right.  To his left sits his ever present cell phone that he touches every so often to check the time, along with notepad, a half drunk cup of tea, a stop watch and pencil. A much needed tripod is sat to his left.

From his vantage point Stiles can see North along a coastline that crawls along the edge of the Mediterranean Sea until it meets the horizon and then, if he turns his head to his left, in the opposite direction, along a jagged cliff face and South to the next resort. In total it's a distance of 6.4 kilometers from point to point, plus a little bit extra from his current position one flight of stairs up and a couple of thousand miles away from Beacon Hills.

Point A to point B however – the route for today falls well short of that. Running along a small stretch of the coastline, passing busy shops, the beach and bars it is just shy of a kilometer - a grand total of 0.71 kilometers.

The route follows a well walked gravel footpath that Stiles now knows like the back of his hand. A mixture of smooth and rough terrain dogs the edges of it, whilst palm trees line it elegantly, highlighting a slight dip and rise of the track which isn’t too noticeable at ground level.

It was all these things he had kept in mind when he had first chosen this particular vantage point although truthfully? The biggest reason wasn't its idyllic location or the epic people watching he could do (although that did help), it was because Stiles knows this is the point Target Alpha can hit full speed or be as close to it as he could get. In fact only down side to this particular location as far as Stiles can see - was him. All he can do was sit (ha – the irony!!), watch and wait as the not-quite-strong-enough-yet rays from the sun started to burn the skin of his forehead and shoulders.

This particular morning Stiles thinks he can feel familiar signs of his skin burning already. He turns, quickly inventories the contents of the table and searches for the bottle of lotion that he had promised to use more regularly.

Nothing.

Tutting, Stiles fumbles with the map, turning it over, checking underneath, cursing up a storm as he foolishly twists his body around to look towards the darkness of the apartment he currently calls home. As usual at the movement a shot of pain stops him in his tracks and Stiles cries out as the sensation moves up through his leg and into his side. He grabs at the tender spot, rubbing it hard in response. “Fucking fuckity fuck,” he mutters under his breath. He knows no one can hear him, or understand him well enough as the apartment is fairly isolated, but he still bites at his lip to hold back another curse.

Stiles ignores the pain once more – or tries to, scanning the room again, his eyes darting around the dark void. He finally spots the sun lotion sat on a lone coffee table someone has positioned next to the wall, _a_ _nd yes_ it’s as far away from him as it could be.

Stiles growls softly.

He could cope right? With the pain? If he was really careful?

Stiles touches the section of skin on his shoulder that he can already feel burning. Nope. Nein. Non. He shakes his head at the exposed area. The pale skin is beginning to glow red and he can already feel it tightening.

 _‘Really? Already? It’s early to deal with this shit’_ Stiles says to himself and he rolls his eyes as a conversation from the previous evening flashes in front of him – _‘see what happens when you fall asleep in the weak morning sun? You miss stuff and get sun burned that’s what’_.

Stiles curses in the same way he had earlier (twenty seconds ago). Doesn't everyone know he has skin like Teflon? Anyone?

Stiles looks at the abandoned bottle once more and scowls, _fuck it_ , its miles away.

 _Who the_ _hell_ _left it there?_

Instead of making his way over to get it because he is tough like that, Stiles lifts the binoculars to his face for one last check of the hill he expects Target Alpha too appear from.“Yeah. Good. All clear,” he whispers to himself then puts the glasses on top of the wall and reluctantly rolls himself backwards.

He can do this. He can. He has time.

Stiles grunts in frustration even before he sets off wagons rolling. Everyone else he knows is able to jump up, grab the cream; maybe get a coffee, piece of toast and sit right back down. Him? No way. That is but a dream and a big fucking mess even if he did say so because the wheelchair is going to be his enforced cage for the near future whether he likes it or not.

It takes Stiles all his might to swing the wheelchair around to face the patio door of the apartment. Doing so as gracefully as he can is hard considering his leg is stuck out 90 degrees from his body with a fiberglass traction splint covering it from ankle to thigh.

He rolls forward, huffing out curse upon curse suddenly catching a glimpse of his reflection in the patio window. Stiles knows that if he concentrates hard on the vision in front of him, and then even harder on the bed hair, scruff around the chin and toned upper body he can almost forget about the shattered leg that’s stuck out like a sore thumb.

But only just.

It’s the part of his body which these days gets in his way constantly, has people constantly giving him those _‘I’m sorry’_ looks, and the same leg that hurts so fucking much Stiles thinks it may implode with pain if he doesn't take the medication.

It’s also the same leg; he thinks idly, that has a tendency to just clip the edges of furniture like the iron patio chair sat next to him or the corner of the bed if when he doesn't concentrate hard enough.

Stiles curses at his own pathetic reflection. “Damn fucking leg,” he grunts getting frustrated. He then turns his attention to the mental frame underneath him. “Damn piece of shit chair.”

Okay yes, the chair is lightweight titanium and easy to handle ( _‘top of the range son’)_ yet from the moment Stiles sits in it each morning he still feels like he is sitting in a small enclosed box that his body shouldn’t fit into.

With all his might and a little anger Stiles finally swings his body around in the direction he needs to go and propels himself forward another meter, gritting his teeth when the pain shoots up his knee and into his thigh once more.

“Damn piece of shit jeep,” he curses once more as he reminds himself of the other lump of steel that had caused all this.

Rolling into the dark apartment and reaching the coffee table with a final shove Stiles stretch’s out, snagging the half-filled bottle of sun lotion with his hand. He places it on is lap trapping it between his knees and steadies himself for the reverse trip back.

For that Stiles needs to undertake an immaculate three point turn, swing the whole chariot around as casually as he can, then push it outside.

In the end it takes Stiles five minutes and results in another daily prayer to Yoda for new arms. Two months ago he would have thought nothing of lugging stuff about and being the king of running away from things, but as he hauls the chair three meters across a smooth apartment floor he's more exhausted than he never thought possible.

Eventually Stiles lines the chair back into its usual groove and with the brake handle flicked on he grabs at binoculars off the low wall surrounding him and scans the area.

Point A - highest elevation 14 meters.

Mid-point - lowest elevation 8 meters.

Stiles rattles off the figures out loud writing them on his notepad under today’s date.

Settling the binoculars onto the top of the tripod he’s had permanently set up, Stiles leans forward and takes another sweep of the route at the same time. The ingenious way (or so he thinks) the screw on the tripod is greased allows him to pivot the glasses with a small flick of his head to the left and right leaving him hands free.

 _Talking of hands free…(_ because the whole sun burn thing was a complete pain in the ass) Stiles remembers the lotion in his lap.Using a well-practiced movement he opens the flip top squeezing a small amount into his left hand. The cream feels cool on his warm lightly tanned skin. For once he ignores the faint pot marks the shattered window screen glass had made on his shoulder and arm, rubbing over them gently. The skin that is still sensitive from the jeep accident he takes extra care with though, making gentle strokes across his torso.

Still massaging the lotion in Stiles twists his body rotating the glasses his gaze landing on a large group of cyclists currently cresting over the top of Point B.

“Damn,” he says as he squints into the scope, he knows is going to need to keep a close eye on their position. The target’s split times have been getting better and better but one step in the wrong direction would fuck up everything. He watches as they slow down, stop, remove helmets, gloves and start drinking water from bottles.

“Good. Stay like that pedal power people,” Stiles tells them, because according to his rough calculations he will have a visual on Target Alpha in 1 min 36 seconds. Concerned, Stiles quickly takes another glance in the group’s direction. They looked like they ate setting in for a while Stiles thinks and that good.  If the target keeps up his recent work rate Stiles thinks he will be okay.

Continuing to spread the cream over his shoulders and face Stiles finally closes the top of the bottle and places it next to his coffee cup growling at it softly… He knows he can get away with some sunburn - sometimes. He really can. His pale European skin coming care of his father’s side of the family was a bitch but he could handle the pain of it. It's the pale raw scarred skin that’s risen up and puckered like its burning all over again which gives him the most grief. And even now, just thinking of damage done when his jeep had overturned (he doesn’t need to look at the limb anymore) his leg twitches and shoots sharp bolts of what feel like high voltage electric up into his thigh.

Stiles holds himself very still at the sensation. The need to rub at the affected area is strong. “Shit,” he winces quietly casting a glance at the dosette box of pills that sits next to this mug of tea for medication he thinks hasn’t taken. He grimaces at the empty slot; today the happy pills are taking their time to kick in.

With the next bolt of pain a gasp leaves his mouth - the reflex movement of it this time jolts the chair aggravating the leg more. Rolling forward Stiles attempts to combat the stiffness by shifting his body to a different position – not that he has many to choose from - but a slight hitch of the ass cheeks and the pain can swing both ways.

Good or bad.

For better or for worst.

This time Stiles reserves judgment and instead his fingers dodge then trace the small pin holed scars twelve steel rods had made around his knee and ankle. He then follows a familiar path along the top of his leg rubbing down along his calf.

The leg _is_ shadow of its former self without doubt and Stiles hates it more arch day.

Twisted, damaged and weak he knows it will be like this for the rest of his life and not for the first time the thought scares the life out of him because these last twelve weeks have already felt like a lifetime.

Ten weeks in pins and a cast.

Two operations.

Two weeks in a traction splint.

One uncomfortable flight.

Lots of money spent.

Stiles bitches constantly.

No wonder his dad and Scott had sent him away from Beacon Hills again – (aka as far away as possible) – to heal quicker. He snorts as he remembers the conversations they had all had just before he left.

_‘Sunshine, Stiles, it will do you good. It did last time.’_

_'Yeah bro, listen to your dad, fun, sea and half naked Spanish girl and boys for you to leer at.’_

_‘And you know damn well the Physiotherapist is a good one.’_

Stiles snorts once more at the memory. By ‘good’ his dad had obviously meant borderline military sadistic. But still...

“Damn jeep.” The curse words now roll off his tongue easy as he steals another quick glance through the binoculars whilst his fingers continue to rub absentmindedly at his leg.

Stiles glances down at the time on his cell - 59 seconds – then turns back to look at the cyclists now lounging across the sand.

“Stay the fuck put,”he whispers across at them, the palm trees are covering their location fairly well but Stiles can tell they haven't moved since the last time he checked.

The target can handle no problem the group if they moved but he would need to be sharp, he’d need space to dodge and employ evasive maneuvers. He would then need to slow down, re-pace himself, adjust his footwork and stride and then after doing all that, (as Stiles knows only to well) can he explode with power over the crest of the hill as he follows the pathway in front of the balcony and towards Point B.

Knowing that he can't help with any of this Stiles reaches for the stop watch.

_45 seconds_

_30 seconds_

_10 seconds_  

On auto pilot, Stiles’ face drops behind the binoculars again. Eyes locked to the lenses, the clever device on the top will register the moment Target Alpha appears on the horizon.

Shifting his body around but not the chair, Stiles leans forward, resting his weight on the thick white balcony wall.

_0 seconds._

Target sighted.

A lithe body rises over the peak and Stiles hits the stop clock as planned. “Fuck yeah!” he shouts out to no one in particular and his voice carries across the empty footpath below.

He could see Target Alpha is hitting it just right. His stride is just…and just… and Stiles preens at the magnificence on display.. “Hooo-weeee!” he yells into air.

_Just perfect._

_Just spot on._

_Just…._

Now Stiles alternates from the binoculars to the stop watch, his head jerking between the two.

He watches each foot as it powers forward, one in front of the other, propelling Target Alpha onward. Strong leg muscles move with effortless grace, powerful arms rock in time. Head up proud, dark hair flowing. It’s a thing of beauty to see someone get it so right and Stiles is in awe.

So focused.

So alert.

So fast.

“Fuckin’ hell he’s nailing it,” Stiles splutters out the words, not quite believing what he is seeing. He checks the stop watch one more time. _Yeah he was nailing it!_ Stiles wants to jump up and shout out over the wall - _“fuckin’ get in!”_ but he doesn't (can't) instead he rechecks the second hand.

The runner _still_ has the steep four meter incline to deal with as he drops down past the cyclists, but Stiles knows damn well from these early morning outings that he will slow just slightly as he reaches it, adjust his stride and pick up the tempo.

By now Stiles is praying to the god of the Tour de France (even though technically he was in Spain) that the cyclists keep their position. “Stay… Stay… _no te muevas,_ ” he whispers at them, his eyes are firmly fixed on the Lycra clad group.

He is not beneath pleading.

Stiles turns his attention back to the runner who is still focused, unfazed and gliding along the pathway with effortless ease. That dark head of hair bobs softly as strides lengthen, the runner finding a true rhythm. “Fucking nailing it!” Stiles repeats, this time a little louder.

It’s a good run.

_The best._

As the runner finally reaches the group of cyclists Stiles holds his breath,caught up in the moment. “Stay… stay…” he tells them and his words slowly turn into “go… go…” as the runner inches past the group without issue.

Suddenly Stiles remembers. He would kick himself he could and not care about the damage . Checkpoint time. He takes a quick look at the stop watch then back through the range finder on the glasses.

_Flying_

1.2 seconds up on yesterday. The split time going straight into the notebook.

Stiles quickly switches back to the binoculars just in time to lose Target Alpha behind some palm trees and then out the other side.

Distance 0.1 miles as the crow flies and moving.

Hunkering down Stiles settles into the easy familiar position he has assumed so many mornings and so many days, nights and weeks before that; a shattered leg tucked under the table, tripod between his legs, eyes set to focus, his heart drumming loudly against his chest, these days feels somewhat natural.

He glances up again at the runner again. He has 0.33 miles to go before he hits point B but he’s already shaved off two seconds from yesterday and _fuck me_ Stiles knows he could do it.

_The best._

Point B soon becomes Stiles’ new visual as  body of the runner comes once more into view then shrinks away in height as he increases the distance.

“Point B,” Stiles tells himself. Higher up, steeper incline, fourteen meter elevation, section harder. Stiles winces as a shot of pain rolls through his leg in sympathy as he thinks of the way Target Alpha is pushing himself to the limit but if anything there is an increase in speed and before Stiles can blink… finally… oh finally... his target reaches his goal.

_Time check._

2.3 seconds quicker than yesterday.

Through the binoculars Stiles watches an arm rise punching the air. _Yeah_ the runner knows its good.

Stiles knows it was good.

A smile wraps around his face. The immaculately written daily log displaying what he knows already - that it was a personal best. “Fuckin’ hell yeah!”

Stiles takes one last look through the binoculars. Of course the runner was oblivious to Stiles’ celebrations on the balcony disappearing off into the distance post cheer not even stopping like Stiles would have done to do a victory dance. Instead Stiles leans back in the seat of wheelchair and gives himself a little congratulatory punch in the arm instead.

 _Personal Best_.

Coolest thing he has seen all year. 

When Stiles finally comes down – because yeah okay right – he doesn’t get out much these days – he’s already noticing the _‘boom’– back to reality_ _’_ feeling is creeping up and his injured thigh is throbbing once more.

The medication _need_ _s_ to kick in soon. It has to.

Taking one breathe at a time Stiles looks out over the balcony wall. The grassy plot of land in front of him is usually waking up as he starts to feel sleepy and his usual euphoria disappears the moment the huge sprinklers that coastline looking lush and green flick on.

The day was starting as it always would and Stiles once more would not be part of it again. He knows he will watch the same tourists visit the same places every day since his arrival. They drink the same type of beer at 10am they drink midnight the night before and crowd into cafes for an English breakfast.

Honestly? He could think of worse places to recover than the coastline of Spain. The appalling bar entertainment from the random Greek restaurant below and the distant shouts of ‘Opa!’ has almost – _almost_ – become entertaining. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t think it was mad the first moment Sheriff Daddio suggested getting on a plane with an obliterated leg but now… now Stiles can see the attraction.

Shifting uncomfortably Stiles fights once more against the metal frame of the chair until he gets comfortable. He may well be on the Spanish coastline, but all the sunshine in the fucking world will never make a wheelchair a comfortable piece of furniture and he sighs at it heavily. He doesn’t care who knows that fact either. The cleaner, the bar owner below, some random tourist sat on a bench – it wasn’t their bare mismatched legs stuck to the chairs false leather material.

Frustrated Stiles thumps the glass patio table with his fist sending the coffee cup across the surface landing out of reach below.

“Fuck,” he grimaces.

Stiles tips his head back onto nothing and closes his eyes as he finally _(yes!)_ feels the familiar sensation of being 'spaced out' starting. Drowsiness is taking over, and he eyes up the plastic balcony sun bed that’s become his other horizontal throne over the past few weeks. Covered with a drying towel and positioned just out of the sun it winks at him to settle down and sleep in a post medication haze that will see him dream of split times, jeeps and the fireball that it had become.

Sliding his phone into the pocket of his shorts Stiles hauls his broken body ungracefully out of his wheelchair as traction splint grazes the side of the sunbed just slightly as he hoists it over the edge. The movement sends another shot of electric pain up and into his stomach. “God damn.” He huffs feeling his stomach roll, because yeah, sometimes the pain still knocks him sick to the stomach, a feature the therapists hadn’t bothered to mention would happen during any of the sessions they had had. But then they hadn’t bothered to tell him he would still be able to hear the breaking bones of his leg shattering, the jeep blowing up, and the drunk driver from the other car lying dead through the middle of the window screen.

Or maybe they had and Stiles hadn’t noticed. He shrugs at the thought. _Yeah,_ that was probably it. Just thinking of the accident these days makes Stiles’ stomach roll so he tries not to.

Any yet…everything is a disaster.

Everything is such fucking hard work.

All Stiles wants is some normality.

All Stiles wants is some sleep and the pain to go away.

“Stiles!!” The voice echoes around Stiles’drug induced brain before he has had to catch up. He hasn’t even heard his cell ring – in fact he hadn’t even realized he’d picked it up and answered it.

“Shit Scott… can you shout any louder?” Stiles replies groggily. He can hear Kira and baby Talia shouting hello in the background and Melissa and his dad telling Scott to put him on speaker.

Suddenly Stiles wants to be there in that room with them but he pushes the thought down.

“Stiles you really need to get up and out of your pit sooner. It’s what? 7 over there.”

“Been up since 5.30 Scott,” he counters back. He hasn’t been able to sleep due to being too hot, too sore, to twitchy. Even with the drugs they give him.

Scott laughs in response. “You’ve been watching your runner again?” Scott knows the score and his words are neither a question nor a statement. “Or shit the bed?”

Stiles huffs. “Yeah… Minus 2.3 seconds, personal best this time. Running a route of just under one kilometer,” he finally replies, ignoring the second question.

“Jesus you must be bored… Or devoted - one or the other.”

This time Stiles blatantly ignores his best friend musings. “What do you want Scott?” he says quickly changing the subject. “You don’t normally call me on a Wednesday morning or is it evening with you, to bid me good tidings.”

“You’ve got an invitation in your inbox.”

“Yeah?”  Stiles replies, automatically pulling a face. He hasn’t bothered to check his email for a week or so.

“We want you to be Talia’s God Parent – not that we’re religious or anything, but we want you to be there for her blessing and if anything happened to us.”

 _What_? Stiles shakes his head in disbelief. “You want what?” Really? “I’m hardly mobile at the moment dude, nor currently in the same country, let alone be the person who’s-less-than-capable hands you’ll willingly leave your gorgeous, noisy, smelly daughter with.”

He hears Scott sigh down the other end of the phone line. “Stiles, you’re perfect. We’ve spoken to Physio and he’s all for you to take the trip. He thinks you can handle it. Plus Talia loves you.”

Scott is right, Talia did, that one year old baby really does worship him, but still… “I’m not sure, let me think?” It was a statement more than a question. “I’m still semi in traction and whatever that sadistic bastard thinks I’m still not mobile enough to travel.”

“Please Stiles, it’ll be fun.”

By now Stiles is drumming the side of the sun bed with his fingers. Beacon Hills is on the other side of the world and a couple of uncomfortable flights way. “I’ll think about it,” he finally replies and the call ends with Stiles promising to respond to Scott with a text and a yes.

Fun?

The last time Scott had suggested fun it kinda ruined his life (not that he is bitter), _“Go in your jeep for curly fries they said, that’ll be fun too they said. Didn’t hear them saying getting rammed off the road by an idiot drunk would be fun though did I?”_   Stiles sing songs and he stares at the touch screen of the cell as it lights up once more.

 _You sure you’re okay Stiles?_   Scott again.

Stiles replies quickly. _Dude I’m fine._ _Medication is great._ _Less of the international calling though – costs me a fortune._

_Okay, just let us know about the blessing yeah?_

_Yeah_.

It comes as no surprise that Stiles soon drifts off to some kind of semi consciousness. In the distance the sound of a door closing; something hitting the ground, then wood scrapping along marbled floor distracts him for a moment but the drugs are too strong for him to care. Placing the phone on the marble floor tiles, rocking his head back against the plastic sunbed giving into the medication; the familiar sinking feeling starts slowly, his body turning more pliable, soft and loose; his toes tingling as finally the pain in his right leg gradually dulls..

A _trippy_ pain free - legal - resolution. 

Stiles tips his head back again and this time he turns it upwards to face the blue Mediterranean sky that's now his temporary home.

He is relaxed as he can be. Possibly.

_Fuck his leg._

Bring on the future.

Stiles allows his body to drift off to his other favourite place the sun warming his skin, but like the phone call he doesn’t hear the  bare pad of precise footsteps walk out onto the balcony or the gentle tut that follows it. He does however feel a hand graze him, a palm fitting around his left leg and sliding up to his thigh.

“Hey sleepy head how much time did I knock off?” The firm voice is strangely comforting to Stiles’ brain but he didn’t dare open his eyes just yet. He doesn’t need to; he knows what will be in front of him when he does. For a brief moment Stiles would rather breathe in the fresh clean scent of the person standing in front of him and stay in his happy place.

“2.3 seconds. Nailed it,” Stiles says when he is ready. He gestures his hand towards the direction of the glass table and the hand written notes he’s left there.

The voice replies quickly. “I knew it was good.”

“I saw you fist pump the air.”

“Cyclists where a hassle though.”

“I wasn’t worried.” Stiles lies.

“Bullshit.” The voice pauses and Stiles hears the sound of a patio chair scrapping across the marble floor and the downed mug from earlier being placed back onto the table. “This fly off the table or did it piss you off for no reason?”

Stiles grunts. He’s still lay with his eyes sealed tight,and when the bright sky above darkens he doesn’t flinch only await the next move.

Two hands land on his shoulders then bare naked legs straddle his thighs carefully so they don’t touch the splint.

“It flew of its own accord,” Stiles finally answers.

A ‘tutting sound’ comes back in response.

“I saw you watching me Stilinski, you can’t keep your eyes off the goods can you?” the voice says settling; the owner’s larger body soon surrounds Stiles own with cool naked skin and hands glide up his chest and Stiles finally cracks open an eye at the action. Cool fingers are now spread out over his jaw and neck and soft lips touch his. The faint morning stubble grazes his jaw and the weight resting on Stiles is good.

“I know.” He says against the soft lips, running his own hands down the damp hard naked body that shudders and breaks out in goose bumps as he touches it. “I love watching you run.”

The skin beneath Stiles’ hands smells sweet. He knows it tastes how it looks too. Needs it even. Salted caramel and brandy cream, just like the color of his runners hair and tanned complexion.

“I heard from Scott.”

“Hmmm?” The voice is too busy placing feather like kisses on his neck to talk and Stiles feels the man bury his face into Stiles’ neck taking a deep breathe.

“They want me to be Talia’s god parent.”

The body straddling him pulls back as if in surprise and looks down at Stiles. Although the other man is taller and bulkier than Stiles, his body curls and fits against his own perfectly. Stiles sighs at the sensation. “That’s quiet an honor Stiles,” the man says gruffly. “They know you love that baby. You gonna do it? I might have said already it was okay for you to travel.”

Stiles shrugs his shoulders and rather than answer, concentrates on rocking the hips that are straddling his own. Feeling the hard ridge of his runner’s bare dick just sliding against his own is just magic. _Oh god_ , they fit together _so_ well.

“Fucking hell big guy, running makes you horny.” Stiles whispers back, distracted enough to ignore the original question.

The runner nudges their rock hard dicks together once more and rocks his body against Stiles’ a second time.

Stiles gasps at the action, embarrassed at the tone his voice instinctively takes, “ _Derek_.”

Captain Derek Hale ignores his protests though. “Damn right it makes me horny.”

Stiles chuckles using his hand to dry off some stray droplets of water from the large muscled shoulders now doing their best to block out the sun. It still, to this day takes Stiles’ breathe away knowing his feeling are being finally reciprocated…It has taken them long enough…

“Good?”  Derek asks in Stiles’ ear, nipping it slightly. He repeats the action on Stiles’ neck.

Stiles doesn't want to answer because it's always good, ever since the first time him and Derek had decided to level up their friendship. “You’ll be the death of me.” Stiles replies; his voice hitching as a tongue grazes his ear.

“I doubt it. I’m just the highly trained US Army physiotherapist your dad sends to on the cheap to put you back together each time you break something – one of the perks of being a family friend. Anyone would think you are doing it on purpose.”

Stiles chuckles at the words. “I don’t think it was my fault this time.” So what if this was his third time in three years sitting in a random apartment on the coast with Derek straddling him. Yes, this time might be the furthest away they had traveled (it was across the other side of the world for fuck sake)  – and Stiles knows the guy goes where the Army sends him but these days Stiles has taken to following Derek around with varying wounds from animal attacks, broken wrists, and fucked up legs like a lost pup. He may have been unintentionally working through a list of injuries but he’ll never admit it.

Not when the sex was so good.

Or the fact he was in love.

“Not again though. That’s it. I’m done. I’m growing up – Scott wants me to be a part of his kid’s life. That’s serious shit Captain.”

“I know.” Derek answers obviously not believing him; his gaze is still fixed on Stiles’ face. “But hey I’m kind of grateful for it you know. Your general clumsiness does mean we get another full summer together… if not longer – I mean my posting is for three years.” Derek continues, rocking his hips against Stiles’ pelvis as he speaks. Rotating clockwise in one solid movement magically makes all the pains in Stiles’ leg disappear.

Stiles pushes a stray hair from Derek’s forehead. It’s longer than it should be and Stiles likes it. “I think my dad knows about us, he wouldn’t send me across the world for anyone,” Stiles finally admits. He then smiles against soft perfect lips, and re-tucks another damp curl of dark hair behind an ear to distract from his admission.

“Fuck Stiles. The things you say.” Derek says with a smirk. He torments Stiles once more with a flick of his tongue to his jaw.

Stiles finally twists into the action finding a hot mouth and doesn’t flinch as a strong hand that isn’t his own reaches inside his shorts taking them both in hand.

“You up for it?” The runner asks, his grip tightening on Stiles’ dick once more sending a good ache to his balls. “Even after taking that shit you call medication? I know I could be.”

Stiles nods, a smile breaking out across his face. “Of course.”

“Lucky me then.”

“Nah lucky me. But I bet you can’t knock 2.3 seconds off your PB doing this.” Stiles challenges with a grin.

Derek chuckles. “Challenge accepted peg leg. Get out your stopwatch.”


End file.
